


To Catch a Predator but Instead of Catching Him She Kills Him

by PoboboProbably



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:25:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12350046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoboboProbably/pseuds/PoboboProbably
Summary: In which Lera Trevelyan, eight years before becoming Inquisitor, is sent on an ill-fated caravan from Ostwick to Hercinia by her family. At first excited at the chance to leave the city, she is soon confronted by terrifying events as things go sour.





	To Catch a Predator but Instead of Catching Him She Kills Him

“When am I leaving?” Lera asked, annoyed.

“Leaving where?” Braddock asked. Clearly he was being as observant as ever.

“On the caravan to Hercinia. Where else?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the alienage? You certainly seem to love it there.” Lera could feel her mother’s disappointment from across the room before Braddock had even finished speaking.

“If I wanted to go to the alienage, I wouldn’t have asked. I’d have just gone,” she explained.

“What’s your hurry with the caravan anyway?” he asked, scratching his already messy beard.

“Are you joking? The sooner I’m out of this city, the better.”

“Believe me, Lera, you are not alone in thinking that,” called her mother, now approaching Lera and her brother. Her hair was still tied in the same elaborate bun as always. Though most of it was still jet black, streaks of gray were beginning to appear in it. “You leave in a couple of hours.”

“Maker,” Lera scoffed. “Why can’t I go now?”

“As much as we would all benefit from your departure,” Lucy began, displaying her usual brand of motherly affection, “itineraries exist for a reason. They’re likely checking the caravan’s inventory now.”

“Right. The inventory. Of course.”

Despite her impatience, Lera couldn’t deny the reason given for the delay. It was a trade agreement, after all. Looking to expand the family’s influence within the Chantry and across the Free Marches, her parents had made forays into minor trade. Ostwick’s nobility wasn’t exactly known for its industrial prestige, however. More than anything, they funded caravans carrying goods out of the city, making House Trevelyan one of the Chantry’s unofficial supply lines in the Marches. The most important of these routes would be accompanied by a member of the family, usually her father or eldest brother, to act as a delegate. Though Lucy dared not send Lera to represent the family on any such trades, she still sent her on the odd trip to Hercinia or Markham, if only to get her out of the way for a few days of relative peace. Though she couldn’t care less for the politicking and posturing of these affairs, Lera savored each opportunity she got to get away from Ostwick. 

Today, Lera would be joining six or seven carriages taking basic resources like cookery, grains, and animal pelts to Hercinia’s chantry. The trip was meant to take a full seven days: three on the road, one in Hercinia, and three on the way back. Seven days without having to deal with her family or with the tedium of nobility. Lera couldn’t be happier.

Though waiting didn’t come naturally to her, Lera had little choice in the matter. Ticking away the hours, she sat by the large bay window in her bedroom and watched for the messenger who would be coming to tell her the caravan was ready to depart. She peered into the light crowds outside the manor, trying to fish out the purple feathered hat worn by the caravan’s representative. When she finally saw it, she left her room at a brisk jog, pulling on leather boots one at a time while hopping forward until she reached the top of the stairs.

“He’s here,” she called, not really caring who heard her, before exiting the mansion and catching the messenger on approach. 

“The caravan’s ready, I take it?” she asked him.

“Er, yes, Lady Trevelyan. We’re all waiting for you. Come along.”

Lera’s excitement at leaving Ostwick quickly waned as she remembered what dreary affairs caravan journeys really were. Sitting alone in a cabin for days on end with only books and merchants for company, then a boring meeting, usually with Chantry clerks, and more days on the road. Still, she supposed, it beat staying in Ostwick. Maybe one day she’d stay in whatever city she was sent to. No doubt her mother would be overjoyed at the prospect of Lera no longer being around to cause trouble. It was a pipe dream, she’d admitted to herself, though still one worth distracting herself with. At any rate, Hercinia was far too fanciful a city for her tastes. If she wanted palaces and intrigue, she’d go to Val Royeaux.

The caravan’s journey was as uneventful as planned. The first day passed entirely without incident, Lera having spent most of it reading in her cabin. Indeed, there was little else to entertain her. The sights around the road were interesting at first, but lost their appeal to familiarity over time. The highway was mostly just flanked by trees anyway. The cabin itself contained three cushioned benches in the shape of a U underneath which were small storage compartments, most of them containing books, though one of them was home to a bedroll and a couple pillows. At the front left corner of the cabin was the door. Small glass windows lined the top of the walls, giving Lera enough light to read by for most of the day. When the daylight faded, there were candles, though using them while the caravan was still moving was highly discouraged. Lera did her best to keep her mind busy on these trips, though it often proved challenging.

The second day was much like the first, though a broken axle at the front of the line delayed them for nearly an hour in the morning. That afternoon, Lera was engrossed in a tome detailing the Antivan Crows’ assassination of a Rivaini pirate captain when the caravan stopped again. They’d stopped for lunch just two hours prior, so the delay was a surprise. Maybe another broken axle?

Lera closed the book and moved closer to the door to see what was happening. She heard metal clattering against metal as she approached. That was distressing. Peering cautiously through the door’s window, she saw the real reason for the stop and gasped. Men in dark, tattered leather gear were running around the carriages, slaughtering members of the caravan at random. The mercenaries hired to protect them were quickly dispatched. Lera stared in horror at the scene playing out before her, surveying the roadway until she met eyes with an archer taking aim. She lept away from the window just as his arrow pierced its glass and buried itself in the wood of the cabin’s other wall. 

Covering her mouth to muffle her anxious cries, she hoped the door would remain closed. But it was a hope in vain.

A fat fist slammed on the door, followed by a malicious voice asking, “who’ve we got hiding in here, I wonder?” Lera gripped the door’s handle and pulled desperately, hoping to keep the man from opening it, though she was no match for his strength.

After ripping the door open, his large, hairy arms dragged her kicking and screaming out of the carriage and threw her to the ground. Lera landed on her back, but didn’t dare take her eyes off the bandit, who took a quick look inside the cabin before returning his attention to her. She forced herself backwards, trying to put enough distance between herself and the burly man attacking her to get up and run.

But it wasn’t enough.

Just as she was beginning to pick herself up, the flat of his boot kicked her shoulder back down and landed hard on the ground to the left of her hips. His other boot hit the ground on the other side, giving her little to look at aside from his looming form. Lera felt the fear widen her eyes as she looked up at him, trapped. His face twisted into a sickening sneer and she could guess what was on his mind as he dropped to his knees around her and wrapped a dirty callused hand around her throat.

“My, aren’t you just _delicious_? Better have some fun with you…”

The fact that only one of his hands had gripped her neck was no comfort. The other was busy undoing the front buckle of his leggings, the sound of skin brushing against fabric a sinister warning of what was to come. He leaned closer, increasing the pressure of his grip so that her own breath was stolen from her as she felt the hot mist of his hit her face. Blood pressed outward against the skin of her cheeks as it flooded her face and became trapped. He snarled, giving voice to the perverted evil in his eyes as he pulled the hem of his leggings down below his groin. She felt it slap her thigh.

“I’ll be thinking about this for a long time,” he spat.

Lera looked to her left, where most of the caravan was already being ransacked and several of its drivers lay dead in the dirt. She heard a terrified whimper escape her lungs as she considered whether she was about to join them.

“But cheer up, love. You won’t live to remember it long.”

Lera looked to her right, noticing a few more dead among the ruined carriages and just out of reach, a rock. She looked back up at the bandit in time to see drool fall from his hanging lip onto her shirt. His grip on her neck tightened again and her lungs struggled even more to keep her alive. Her skin felt close to splitting. She turned again towards the rock and shot out her arm in an attempt to reach it just as he planted his groping paw on her breast. If she was going to make it out alive, it had to be now. First a brush at the fingertips. Then a slight nudge. Finally, her fingers closed tightly around it and she looked straight into her attacker’s frenzied eyes. Terror gave her a strength beyond what she thought herself capable of, and the first blow to his temple put him on his back.

Blood rushed away from her head as a moment’s relief washed over her entire body, but she wasn’t finished. She turned to face the fallen bandit and jabbed her knee hard into his gut. Then she struck. _One. Two. Three_. He stopped struggling to resist the blows. _Four. Five. Six_. Blood painted the whole of his face now. _Eight. Nine. Ten_. Skin tore, flesh snagged, bone sunk. He was no longer recognizable. Lera screamed as she brought the rock down upon the pulpy mess of his head again and again, losing count of how many times she’d struck him before she finally relented, spent.

Then a crash to her right and the sound of a blade splitting flesh reminded her that the man she’d killed was not alone. Though her exhaustion was more mental than physical, it still strained her muscles to sprint into the tree line, where she hid in the underbrush and did her best to quell her sobbing. She’d run slightly uphill, giving her a vantage point over the caravan, though the trees blocked much of it from view. Much, but not all. From behind her tears her eyes were drawn to one unmistakable figure: that of the would-be rapist whose skull she’d shattered. The ground beneath his head was awash in pulpy blood, the same crimson sludge that was still flowing from the hole in his face. That still drenched her fingers. A man was dead by her hand. A despicable villain, but still a man.

Survival and sympathy fought a war in Lera’s heart that made sitting still incredibly difficult, but sit still she did. An hour or more she hid in the underbrush, watching the rest of the bandits but always returning to the pool of blood that became of the one who’d found her. Eventually, the others found his body and correctly determined from the state of his pants that he’d attempted to rape one of the caravan members, who by then had likely run off. One of them knelt down and lifted a coin purse from the body before abandoning it. The rest of the caravan’s crew—about half of the original complement, it seemed—was on its knees, following orders from the bandit leader while he addressed his men.

“That’s the last of it? Good. Take it up the road with the rest of the haul. And leave half the food and drink, as a token of our appreciation for their hospitality and cooperation.” At least they wouldn’t starve on the way back to Ostwick now.

When the thugs were ten minutes gone, Lera worked up the strength to return to the caravan, where the remaining crew were already getting ready to leave. Her legs felt hollow, and her breaths weak. She lacked the will to join the traders in their discussion. Following the death of the head driver, the caravan had no formal leader, though it mattered little, as the decision to return to Ostwick at once was unanimous. One of the drivers approached Lera.

“Lady Trevelyan, are you alright?” he asked, noticing her shock. Upon seeing her bloody hand, he gasped and turned to face the man whose blood it was. “Maker preserve us… did you do _that_?”

Lera nodded.

“Did he manage to…?”

“No. But he was close. He would have done it if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t…” Lera found herself staring at the red stains on her trembling palm. She knew what she meant to say. That she’d killed him. That she’d made a stew out of a living man’s face almost with her bare hands. The savagery of it made her want to vomit now.

“Oh, Maker,” he said. “Here, climb onto my carriage. I’ll have you home to your family by morning.”

The journey home was harrowing. With little drinking water and no streams nearby, Lera’s hands would have to go unwashed for hours. The caravan eventually made camp for the night by a small pond where she scrubbed the blood and dirt from her fingers and palm. Fearful nerves forbade her from washing any more. They did not rest long. The caravan was only stopped for around three hours—barely long enough to take a nap—before picking up again. It mattered little, though; Lera couldn’t have slept if she’d tried. They faced no complications for the rest of the way back to Ostwick, most of which was under the cover of darkness. Though the bandits had made good on their leader’s orders to leave behind half of the food, most of what they’d left amounted to uncooked oats and rice, and without pots to cook them in, those were next to useless. The lack of proper resources forced a grueling pace on them, and Lera arrived at her estate a hungry, tired, and travel-worn mess of anxiety. As if that weren’t bad enough, it was Lucy who greeted her upon opening the front door, staring expectantly at the entryway as if waiting for the answer to an implied question.

“Lera? What are you doing back so soon?” asked Lucy, apparently concerned. That was surprising.

“Where’s Osbert?” Lera asked, hoping to avoid telling her mother what had happened.

“Out with your father. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here early? You shouldn’t even have arrived in Hercinia yet.” 

“The caravan was attacked,” Lera answered.

“Maker save me. What happened?”

“There were bandits. They killed half of the crew. Took all of the valuables. One of them… nearly raped me. He had me pinned down and—“

“They took _everything_? Even the pelts?” Lucy demanded.

“What? I just said—”

“That they took the valuables, yes. Which ones? All of them?”

“That I was nearly raped! Do you truly care nothing for your own _daughter_?!”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Lucy bit. “You said nearly, didn’t you? Clearly you made it out fine.”

“Only because I killed him! With a rock! Do you have any idea how terrifying that was?”

“Maker, now she’s a murderer, as well!” Lucy exclaimed, speaking to herself. “On top of everything else that’s wrong with her…”

“Wrong with _me_? He said he’d _kill me_ when he was done! Should I have just lain there and let him do it?”

“Maybe if you had, you’d have spared me the trouble of having to clean up your messes all the time.”

Lera gasped. Did she hear that right?

“Well?” Lucy asked impatiently. “Don’t just stand there sniveling like a punished schoolchild. Are you going to tell me what they took or will I have to hear it from a servant?”

“You’re despicable…” Lera floundered, struggling to say more with the lump in her throat. She ran up the stairs into her room, unable and unwilling to spend another second in her mother’s company.

She slammed the door shut behind her, letting her eyes survey the room. Familiarity did not bring comfort. Lera was a storm of pained rage. She and Lucy had never gotten along very well, but even this level of callousness was shocking. To think that her own mother was capable of such indifference… was she really so unloved? So uncared for?

Lera pushed her back against the door and let herself slide down it, cradling her knees and sobbing quietly to herself. She considered whether it was truly possible that her mother would have preferred that she had died in the attack, and in doing so trapped herself in its memory. He was on her, grinning and jeering and unaffected by her desperate attempts to free herself. His hands constricted and groped in preparation. He was so close, and then… the rock. She battered him, drove it through his skull, felt stone scrape against bone, watched the skin catch on the rock’s jagged edges. She made a spongy mess of his face even as the body went limp and the twitching stopped and the ground was drenched in blood. Blood that would forever stain her hands.

She shuddered in fear, both of the bandit and of herself. The next several days were not easy. The memory of the assault played on a loop in her head, constantly forcing her to relive its every miserable detail. Her hands trembled, her breaths wavered, her eyes dribbled tears until their ducts ran dry. She felt unsafe, sudden noises would make her jump, and she spent most of her time locked in her bedroom, even taking her few meals there. She slept very little. When news of the attack spread among the other members of the family, the reactions were all more or less as she’d expected them to be. Her father, predictably, couldn’t be bothered to talk to her about it at all. Braddock said little that wasn’t demeaning, though he admitted to being proud of the way she’d “ended that sorry bastard.” Osbert, much like her father, did not muster much of a response, but was unique in offering Lera his sympathies. Lucy continued to act as though she wished the bandit had succeeded. At times, Lera wished the same, if only because it would have relieved her of her substantially lacking family.

Three or four days after coming home, Lera remained locked in her bedroom. Though the tears had stopped falling, her nerves could not be helped. She paced about, staring down at her fingers and attempting to will them into stopping their shaking. She met with little success despite having been at it for an hour or more. She would walk first to the wardrobe and then turn to face the vanity. Back and forth she went, never taking her eyes off of her hand for more than a few seconds, cursing it for its inability to sit still.

“Stop shaking, damn it,” she muttered to herself, still staring.

She reached the wardrobe again, then turned.

“It’s been what, five days? Six?”

She stopped in front of the vanity, then turned yet again. The moment she stepped away, a loud knock sounded at the door accompanied by her brother’s voice. The shock of it sent her reeling backwards into the vanity with a yelp, causing it to tip and fall, shattering on the tile.

“Lera, it’s Os, dinner’s—what was that crash?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Lera cried weakly, the sudden fright coaxing more tears from her eyes. Angry at her own fear, she dropped to her knees and set about picking up the shards of glass, frantically piling them back onto the desk.

“Are you alright? Do you need help?”

“Go _away_ , Osbert!” she barked, voice faltering. If he had anything more to say, she didn’t hear it, too wrapped up in picking up the glass. Her efforts were careless in their haste, however, and before long she cut herself on one of the larger shards and recoiled, breathing in sharply and shaking the pain from her palm. She balled her hand into a fist and pressed it into her thigh, cursing under her breath. The forced pause gave her a moment to look into the glass of the mirror, where she was struck by what she saw.

Her bloodshot eyes had bags underneath them and were wet with tears. Her brows scrunched up fearfully and her lips trembled as rapid, shaky breaths fled from them. She stared straight at herself, taking in the pathetic expression for what it was. Then fear gave way to impatient anger. Her eyes hardened, her breaths steadied. How much longer would she put up with the anxiety? The misery?

“Not. Another. Minute,” she declared in a whisper to herself. She stood up from the floor and reopened her palm, watching the blood trickle out from the cut in its center. As the red stain spread, she forced herself to relive the memory of the attack once more, this time from the third person. She saw the man drag a screaming girl out of the carriage and throw her to the ground. She saw him straddle her and make his unfulfilled threats. Then she saw her pick up the rock and save herself with it by laying waste to his head. She was no longer the helpless girl who’d barely escaped with her life. Now she was the woman who turned the tables on a man twice her size without hesitating, and who without flinching made him pay for the insult with his life. That wasn’t something to fear, not anymore. It was something to be proud of. Something to aspire to. There was no longer any room for helplessness in Lera’s mind. 

She drew a single, resolute breath and strode out of the room to tend to her palm. She nearly hit Osbert with the door on her way out.

“Are you bleeding? What happened in there?”

“I broke the mirror,” she answered, confidence playing on her voice for the first time in what felt like weeks. 

“Maker’s breath—why? Should we get you a healer?”

Lera ignored the question, focusing instead on finding the bandages kept in the spare closet. As she wrapped her hand in the white cotton and watched the red seep through the first few layers, it occurred to her that no amount of confidence would keep her safe unless she knew how to properly defend herself. Being a good shot with a bow and arrow wouldn’t do much to save her in close quarters, which meant she needed to train with melee weapons. And for that, she’d need a trainer. 

Lera noticed that Osbert stood in the closet doorway, watching her finish dressing her wound. When she made for the stairs, he followed her.

“What’s gotten into you? Where are you going?”

“I need to learn how to fight,” she told him, not slowing down as she approached the landing at the top of the stairs.

“Do I even want to know why?”

“You don’t need to. Are you going to try to stop me?”

“No. I’m just curious. Why not train with Barrett?” he suggested. Lera turned to face him, halfway down the stairs.

“Os, I said I need to learn to fight, not look good holding a shield.”

“That’s not fair, Lera.”

“Isn’t it? When’s the last time you even sparred with anyone?” she demanded. “Do you know where Mother’s gone?”

“She’s in the kitchen, I think, why?”

Again, Lera didn’t bother to answer him. Instead, she let him follow her the rest of the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Lucy stood over a plate of food—Lera’s dinner, it seemed—as if waiting for enough time to pass so that she could throw it out. She turned to face Lera, shocked that she’d actually come out of her room.

“Lera? You’re actually out of your bedroom? To what do I owe the plea—”

“Get me a trainer,” Lera ordered.

“Excuse me?”

“A trainer. I need to learn how to defend myself,” she persisted. 

“You can’t be serious. Not enough for you to kill one man, is it? Now you need to learn how to kill more? Absolutely not.”

Lera didn’t feel up to arguing, and she was beyond taking offense at her mother’s spite. But that didn’t change facts. “Though I’m sure it’s escaped your notice, _mother_ , unlike you I’m rather glad I survived the attack and I hope to survive more if they happen. And I can’t rely on lucky rocks to ensure that, can I? Get me a trainer. Someone experienced.”

“No, enough,” Lucy snapped, picking the plate up from the table. “I will not have you turn into a thug! You’re enough of a handful as it is. Now, if you don’t plan on eating this, run along to your room, and don’t ask me for a trainer again.”

“Don’t count on it,” Lera countered, snatching the plate from her mother’s grip and taking it with her to her room, where she finally shook Osbert off her tail and sat on the cushion of her bay window to think. It wouldn’t be easy. Just getting her parents to hire someone would be difficult enough, but the cause was worth any price. She’d ask again tomorrow. Maybe try her father instead. Whatever the case, she wouldn’t give up on the pursuit. Someone in Ostwick would train her whether Lucy liked it or not. The view outside her window was the same as it had always been: a bustling street constantly alight with activity and heavy with foot traffic. She couldn’t help but wonder if her trainer was hiding among the crowd as her mind slowed down and wandered to other places. Finally able to relax again, Lera quickly nodded off to sleep.

It took her two weeks of constant pestering, asking, and sometimes begging, but eventually she wore her mother down. Having had enough of Lera’s constant annoying requests, Lucy had agreed at last to hire a trainer for her, albeit one hired on her own terms. He would ostensibly be employed as Lera’s personal carriage driver, allowing him to stay at the estate and giving Lera the freedom to come and go as she pleased. The training was to be scheduled with decency in mind, which essentially meant the lessons would have to be taken outside of the noble district to avoid sullying the good Trevelyan name. In order to justify the hiring of a carriage driver, Lera would continue representing the family on minor trades and do a good job of it. The arrangement, surprisingly enough, was approved of by both parties. For Lucy, it meant that Lera would spend less time causing trouble in the noble district and finally help the family earnestly. For Lera, it meant she could spend less time in the noble district in general and get away from Lucy. 

Upon Lucy’s concession, Lera made no effort to conceal her excitement. If patience was a virtue, she was full to bursting with vices. Luckily, the search did not take long.

“Lera!” she heard her mother call. “Get down here.”

“What is it?” Lera asked.

“See for yourself,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the front door. She left the foyer without another word.

Lera watched her leave, then turned her attention to the heavy wooden door. She could guess what this was about, but was unwilling to assume it. Still, she was powerless to quell her excitement. She pushed the door open and took a few cautious steps forward. In front of her was a large horse-drawn carriage with a shabby cabin and a shabbier driver. Lera studied his face, a worn and slightly leathery mug adorned with a graying beard and topped with dark speckled hair. Sharp eyes and bushy brows sat above a rather beaky nose and looked back into hers. For a moment neither of them spoke or changed their flat expressions, each sizing the other up. Then he broke the silence.

“Well?” he asked, as though Lera had been ignoring a previous question.

“Are you my trainer?” she asked him.

“Technically I’m your driver.”

“But you _will_ train me?”

“If you get in,” he answered, pointing with his thumb to the cabin behind him.

She took a step towards the cabin’s door, then hesitated. “Mind if I sit up front?”

He seemed to consider it, then matter-of-factly said, “no.”

Lera climbed aboard, taking the seat to his right, and began to introduce herself.

“I know who you are,” he cut her off. “Lera Trevelyan, 19, good shot but knows nothing about melee. Your father filled me in.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected. And yourself? Am I just supposed to call you Ser all the time?”

“Name’s Barton.” Clearly he was not one to stand on ceremony, Lera thought. Without warning he whipped the reins and the carriage set off.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from the nobles. To train.”

“But where specifically?”

“Does it matter?” 

“No, I guess not,” Lera agreed. “What sort of experience do you have, Barton? That does matter.”

He looked at her as though the question had amused him. “Thirty-two years with the Kirkwall city guard.”

“That long? You must have been a captain, then.”

“Never made it past the beat, actually,” he grunted. “They didn’t much care for me there.”

“Why not?” Lera asked, praying that it wasn’t incompetence that had kept the promotions at bay.

“Because I didn’t much care for the rules.”

“Well, if you survived that, you must be pretty good. What are you going to show me today?” she asked, attempting to veil her excitement.

“You’ll see.”

Lera attempted to get more out of him, but eventually realized she wouldn’t make much progress on that front and settled into her seat, watching the city pass by as Barton drove to the training ground. It took little time to reach the borders of the noble district, though their pace slowed in the more crowded and less organized common areas. After about half an hour and very little small talk, Barton tugged on the reins and stopped the carriage next to field of patchy grass. Lera watched him get down from the driver’s seat, tie the horse to a nearby post, and pull a rolled up bundle of weapons out of the cabin. Without looking back at her, he walked toward the center of the pitch. “Come on,” he called.

Lera followed him into the field, where he unrolled the bundle on the ground. All of the weapons were metal, and they looked sharp.

“We’re not using training swords?” she asked, betraying her apprehension.

“These _are_ training swords.”

“But they look like regular, sharp swords.”

“Exactly,” Barton replied, handing her a small shortsword and stepping back to face her before unsheathing the sword at his hip. “Are you ready?”

Lera eyed the blade in her hand. Its weight sat comfortably in her palm, the sharp steel catching her reflection. She wiped all traces of her nerves from her expression, looked back at Barton, and nodded.

“Then let’s begin.”


End file.
